


A Private Reconciliation

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wounds are patched up, whiskey is drunk, and realisations are reached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Private Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> The line about a 'private reconciliation and a personal peace' is from Joan Didion's wonderful 'On Self-Respect' - which helped me trying to figure out this fic.
> 
> I'm still not entirely happy with this, and might tinker some more.
> 
> Any comments gratefully received :)

The first time it had happened, Oswald had had the gall to turn up at the door of Barbara’s apartment when she was thankfully out for the night, ghostly white, and clutching his ribs. Jim’s eyes had widened and his mouth tightened in anger at the sheer nerve of the man, and his _endless_ pushing at the boundaries of their relationship, even as he reached out to grab his shoulder and haul him inside, Oswald all the while stammering apologies and thanks. Jim had carefully done what he could with the bruises and cuts, shook his head disbelievingly at Oswald’s insanely dangerous scheming, given him a whiskey, and put him in a cab. For his part, Oswald had veered between injured pride at being seen in a weakened condition, and casting nakedly grateful glances at Jim from below his lashes.

This had not been a one-off, despite Jim’s stern warnings that this _had_ to be a one-off. Oswald had shown up at the apartment a few more times, explaining that it would upset his poor mother to see him in this state, that hospitals involved too much fuss, were too dangerous - and had finally quietly admitted that he simply had nowhere else to go. Jim had felt the skin on the back of his neck flush with the raw honesty of this last confidence, and the unwelcome intimacy it created between them. He had worked on Oswald’s wounds silently that night, not knowing how to respond, and hoping the admission would sort of fade away if he just ignored it – but the silence had betrayed him, somehow making the scene more intimate rather than less, with only the sound of their breathing in the room, and the acute awareness that Oswald was watching him as he worked. For all that, though, he had still inexplicably chosen to warn Oswald as he left that he would be living at his own apartment from now on, and given him the address. Oswald had gripped his arm, and gazed at him with pale eyes as he thanked him sincerely in his odd, mannered way, and Jim had damn near fidgeted on the spot out of sheer discomfort at how _willingly_ Oswald laid himself bare in front of him – the consummate liar and schemer for once guilelessly showing his hand. Feeling drained at the events of the night, Jim had turned to lean his back against the door after showing Oswald out, and caught himself listening intently for the familiar shuffling footsteps caused by his limping gait, and it had taken a lot, _a lot_ , of whisky to make him sleep that night.

It was the most recent visit though, _that_ one that had worked its way under his skin like a splinter, when Oswald had staggered up to his door at 2am looking like one big bruise. Jim had noticed in previous visits that Oswald seemingly had an incredible tolerance for pain (which had given rise to some uneasy thoughts about the likely reason for that, and an unwelcome pang of sympathy) and so when he had opened his door to find Oswald propped gingerly against the wall, his face taut with pain, he had bitten back his habitual annoyance, made more of an effort to be gentle, and ushered him inside. He had clenched his jaw determinedly when Oswald had leaned into him minutely, shutting his mind against this unconscious attempt to seek out some sort of comfort and respite in him, and asked him tersely what had happened this time.

Only half-listening to Oswald’s explanations, because he had double-crossed so many dangerous men that the names hardly mattered anymore, he had gone about his usual task of cleaning him up. This was much lengthier and more delicate than usual, and he could see Oswald’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the arm of the sofa, trying to master his response to the pain - this control clearly some sort of source of pride for him. Even so, he couldn’t quite manage to hold back the occasional hiss or shudder of pain when Jim pressed ice to a bruise, or swiped antiseptic over a cut. For reasons Jim refused to even contemplate, these noises somehow heightened his usual irritation to a state of hypersensitivity, sharpening the whole situation until it was almost intolerable in its clarity - the image of Oswald's white skin painfully vivid, and his goosebumped skin startlingly rough whenever Jim's fingertips glanced against it.

He was _just_ managing to hold it together, his rage and discomfort and something nameless precariously balanced, when he had pressed a cool cloth to a scarlet graze, causing Oswald - with his endless talent for mayhem - to draw in a tiny gasp, before releasing a low moan of relief. The moan had reverberated in Oswald’s narrow ribcage, and run down Jim’s arm like an electric current, and his eyes had darted to Oswald’s face to see if he was teasing him again, all coy glances and crooked smiles, but damn it fucking all to fucking hell, his eyes were contentedly closed, blissfully unaware of what he had just done to him – and staring at his pale face, Jim had felt a slow shifting sensation through his body, and recognised it for desire.

After Oswald had left that night – and _again_ the tight clutch of slim fingers on his forearm, and the naked gaze, and achingly sincere thanks – Jim had sat on the couch with his head in his hands. Sleep was elusive, and when he managed to drop off, his mind only offered up images of his own hands working on Oswald’s skin in painful detail, and the sound of Oswald’s soft moan over and over, and then the hand movements slowed, and became more deliberate, and the moan more drawn out and desperate, and he’d never been so relieved to hear his alarm clock go off.

He had worked relentlessly over the next few days at work, following every minor lead, every case, every opportunity to tire his mind and body out completely. Harvey had rolled his eyes at him, and made a snide joke about burning off his pent-up energies at work now Barbara wasn’t waiting at home. He had the right motive, but the wrong suspect, and Jim had almost laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of it all. He kept to the harsh pace he had set, though, and prayed that he would not cross paths with Oswald until he had managed to burn this need out somehow.

Neither prayer had been answered, though. He had somehow wound up in Oswald’s office three more times over two weeks, bartering over information. Far from lessening, his new awareness had somehow grown tormentingly acute over the days, and he had started to meticulously avoid looking at Oswald in these meetings, letting his glance slide over his shoulder to the back of the room, or just above his head, on his bizarre fan of hair. His body still found a way to betray him, though, determined to feed this new-found need, and Jim now found – to his dismay - that the familiar rhythm of his limping footsteps and mannered intonation made the back of his neck prickle, and slid sharp fingertips down his spine.

Eventually Harvey had tired of his incessant pace at work, and told him that not only was he making everyone else look bad, which was nothing new, he was starting to make stupid, dumbassed mistakes, and should therefore take his stupid, dumbassed self home for some goddamned sleep. While Jim had been fine with working himself to collapse, he was less fine with mistakes that could endanger a case, and so had taken himself home. Stumbling through the door, he had slung his coat on a chair and slumped on the sofa, leaning his aching head back against the cushions. Without the welcome distraction of work, there was nothing to think about except what he was hiding from: principles, and compromise, and honesty, and black and white, and shades of grey, and finding a new way to be, because God knows he couldn’t go on like this much longer. He thought about adaptation and survival, and whether surrender meant the same as defeat. Finally, he thought about his father, high up on the pedestal on which he had placed him and whether his cooperation with Falcone somehow nullified the rest of the good he had done, and whether humans _could_ live on a pedestal, anyway. A private reconciliation made, a personal peace agreed upon, he finally allowed his eyes to close.

When he heard the familiar knock on his door later that night, he had felt- not the usual twisting discomfort - but a sense of the ground finally feeling solid beneath his feet. And when Oswald had stopped in front of his apartment door before leaving – as he always did - and gripped his arm tightly, giving his usual fervent thanks, Jim had slid his own hand over his, pressed a kiss to his surprised mouth, and reached out to turn the key in the lock behind him.


End file.
